It’s Friday midday and I’ve slept around fifteen hours since Monday night. This morning I left home before dawn to drive for hours. I have already been to the ranger station and filled out the appropriate forms, given them Dr Ella Canfield’s details for a camping permit and a fake emergency contact in case one of us falls off a cliff. This is compulsory for anyone staying overnight in the park and did not present any difficulty. I feel so securely Ella that this paperwork took no thought at all. I’m wearing long khaki pants that I’ve stained with mud and olive oil, and a white T-shirt one size too small that Greta chose for me. I have a long-sleeved shirt over the top to keep the sun off my arms. A baseball cap and thick socks. My glasses of course, although if I had known at the beginning this job would be a long con I would never have started wearing them. Heavy hiking boots, bought just before the shops closed last night and roughed up with dirt and scratched with stones from the driveway around midnight.
